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by grim_lupine



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, years after the fact, Peter wonders if perhaps his life really started when Aslan looked at the four of them and said, <em>You have done enough. Your home is here, if you wish it to be so.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU where the Pevensies remain behind in Narnia after Prince Caspian happens.

-

\--

Some days, years after the fact, Peter wonders if perhaps his life really started when Aslan looked at the four of them and said, _You have done enough. Your home is here, if you wish it to be so._

He remembers his pulse thundering in his ears, remembers Lucy’s fingers clutching desperately at his hand. He remembers looking out at _Narnia_ , beautiful and wild and free, and realizing that what he has long since thought of as his true home will never be taken from him again.

He remembers most clearly the look of dawning joy in Caspian’s eyes, and the answering fluttering it wrought in his own chest, unfamiliar and bright as daybreak.

*

“I already told you, Caspian,” Peter says firmly. “I am not here to take your place.”

“But you are the _High King_ ,” Caspian says, looking agonized.

“And _Aslan_ chose you,” Peter returns easily, smiling at him. He has found that smiling comes easier to him every morning that he wakes up in Narnia. “Only a foolish man would defy that. Besides, I have no need to rule. It is enough for me that I will spend the rest of my years in this land.”

The uncertain tilt of Caspian’s head tells him that a part of Caspian wishes he would stake his claim on the throne of Narnia and remove its weight from Caspian’s shoulders; but Peter can see the edge of relief in his eyes, the burgeoning look of a king who would not give up his place for the world. That look is only one of many things that assures Peter that Narnia is in the right hands.

“I only hope that in time you will consider me a friend, and someone whose expertise can be used to help Narnia,” Peter says sincerely. He has already fought at Caspian’s side, and he knows that living under his rule will be the farthest thing possible from a hardship.

Caspian grins at him, looking boyish and kingly all at once. “I have no doubt that your advice and your sword will be invaluable to our land, High King. And as for the first, I already consider you as such.”

“Then it should be ‘Peter’,” Peter tells him and feels something lock into place inside him at Caspian’s answering smile.

*

Edmund falls immediately into place as the diplomat he once was, and Peter sees those skills come back to him as easily as drawing in a breath: treaties flow from his fingers and his lips, and on those occasions when peace cannot be wrought, his sword is ever-ready at his side. Edmund is at that age where he seems to grow taller between every time Peter looks at him, and it jolts him a little; he knows, already, what his little brother will look like as a man fully grown. He knows when the prickle of dark hair will shadow his cheeks, when his face will thin and his limbs lengthen, when his shoulders will finally fill out enough to match the weight that they carry. Peter has witnessed this slide into adulthood once, and yet this second growth feels—different. Almost easier. Here they have responsibilities, but less arduous duties, and Edmund is allowed to be one moment as grave and dignified as a diplomat and warrior of Narnia should be, and the next moment a grinning boy, happier than Peter has ever seen him.

 _This_ Narnia knows of Edmund’s past only through stories, not through experience. Peter can still see those shadows in Edmund’s eyes, sometimes, but the keen edge of remembrance and guilt has been dulled here.

Lucy is, as always, Narnia’s fair child. She, too, grows within the space of a breath, but Peter sees her divert from the way she grew the first time, become a little wilder to fit in this wilder Narnia. As much as it frightens him a little, it suits her. She lets her hair grow out until it tumbles past her shoulders in long waves; and then one morning, in a fit of exasperation, she shears it off near her ears. The close cut makes her face look thinner, her neck longer. Her eyes older.

She keeps two knives at hand always, sometimes more, and she rarely goes a day without practicing her aim. One day, she comes to Peter with a look of determination in her eyes, and tells him not to worry if he doesn’t hear from her for a while.

“But where are you going?” he asks, confused. She shrugs, and dimples at him in a way that makes him suddenly remember her at two years old, smiling at everyone in the world like that was the only way she could release some of the irrepressible joy within her.

“I don’t know yet, Peter. But I’ll be fine on my own, and I want to _see_ things. And I won’t let you stop me,” she says, and looking at her, Peter doesn’t think he _could_.

So Lucy leaves with a bag of provisions, a little money, her ever-present knives, and not much else. Peter knows she can take care of herself, but he can’t quite let go of all his worry until she returns, two months later, looking dirty and tired and brilliantly happy, like she’s being lit up from within. After that, Peter resigns himself to losing his baby sister every now and again, to the land that they all love, but that she _needs_. He still worries, but not that much. After all, he knows that Narnia herself is protecting Lucy, and how can he do any better than that?

Susan—Susan takes one look around the castle and decides that Caspian needs someone to run everything smoothly. “And after all, Peter, I _have_ always been the one to keep you all in line, don’t try to deny it,” she tells him in a familiar tone of sharp decisiveness, of _I can do this, and I **will** be good at it_ that Peter cannot gainsay. She is the one that organizes their banquets, and makes sure they know the protocol for addressing visiting dignitaries, and it is her firm hand that settles more than one squabble with confidence and ease.

She has always been beautiful to him, but there is no question that time and age only heighten it, and he watches his sister become a lady again. Her dresses become more intricate, and her hair grows down to the middle of her back, and nearly every man who sees her loses his words at the sight of her smile. Peter can see the less obvious changes as well, though—the return of those telling calluses on his oh-so-ladylike sister’s hands; the assurance and icy poise with which she proves wrong those who would think her weak for her beauty and gentleness (when this happens, it is always Edmund who looks the proudest, while Peter shakes his head and Lucy hides her laughter in her sleeve).

Peter catches her one night, returning to the castle with her hair pinned back in a tight braid, bow grasped in one hand. When she sees him, she looks for a moment like she thinks she might have done something wrong, and Peter frowns.

“My dear sister,” he says to her, “there is no cause to steal away like this. Propriety does not matter here.”

Susan purses her lips for a moment, and then shoots him a look of sly amusement. “Of course it does, Peter. But I suppose propriety is only how we define it, isn’t it?”

He grins back at her, and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You may be Queen Susan the Gentle, but your heart is that of a warrior.”

She smiles at him, and the look in her eyes—old, wise, that of a _woman_ and not of a girl—shows him how much Narnia has taken hold of them all.

As for himself—Peter feels himself come to manhood in the spreading breadth of his chest, the longer reach of his arms; the way he can train harder and longer, and push himself past his limits for the sheer joy of exertion. Perhaps it isn’t kingly, but he finds himself almost thirsting for battle—not the blood, nor the death, but the _challenge_ of it, the hope of crossing blades with a worthy opponent and proving himself the better warrior. Caspian leans on him when it comes to warfare and tells him privately one day, “You are my sword arm, Peter.” The words thrill him from deep within.

He and Caspian have become near-inseparable; Caspian trusts Susan’s judgment and Lucy’s insight into the heart of Narnia, Edmund’s words and Peter’s sword. Peter can’t count the number of times he and Caspian have stayed awake into the dark early hours of the morning, strategizing and watching the candles burn down. Peter thinks he might be the only one who has witnessed those moments where Caspian allows himself to stop being a king, and confess the troubles and worries of a man. Peter doesn’t know why Caspian’s clear regard makes his chest ache sharply and sweetly; why, sometimes, when Caspian lays a hand on his shoulder and smiles into his face, Peter finds it difficult to draw breath.

Until he starts waking at night with the elusive dream-memory of dark eyes burning into him, a hard mouth pressing onto his, words spoken in that voice, _that voice_ , and he strokes himself to completion with his eyes closed and his heart pounding. It sets his cheeks afire for weeks after he comes to terms with his feelings, but thankfully the only ones who seem to realize the nature of his preoccupation are Edmund (who smirks at him, too knowing for his own good), and Susan (who pats his cheek and tells him to just be patient). Caspian never notices anything, and Peter eventually gets himself under control; Caspian is his best friend, having long since moved past his slight awe and reserve with Peter, and his friendship is enough. This inconvenient attraction will simply have to fade away.

*

What Peter doesn’t count on, however, is Caspian finally catching on.

“ _Oh_ —

(one word, one little word and it’s enough to make the blood freeze in Peter’s veins, because that is _comprehension_ in Caspian’s voice, comprehension and Peter can’t read what else there might be on Caspian’s face, but the possibilities are making his chest hurt like he’s been stabbed, and)

— _Peter_.” And _that_ Peter recognizes like the feel of his sword in his hand; that tone is fond exasperation, and it’s one he’s heard from all his siblings alike. That Caspian is using it now bodes well for him, he supposes. (“After all,” he’s heard from Edmund time and again, “you might be an emotional imbecile, Peter, but we love you anyway.”)

Caspian is smiling at him, now, and his hand is on Peter’s neck, sliding upward until it cups his jaw firmly. “I didn’t know. You could have said something.”

“So could you!” Peter starts indignantly, but finds himself interrupted halfway by Caspian’s mouth on his, firm and decisive and a little dizzying. Peter’s hands twitch uncertainly, before sliding up Caspian’s back and threading into his hair; Caspian doesn’t try to carry the kiss too far, pulls back when it’s still relatively chaste, but Peter can feel enough pent-up heat and joy in it to make his stomach swoop delightedly.

Caspian kisses the corner of his eye, under his ear, his fingertips; lays his mouth against the curve of Peter’s neck and whispers to him things like _You understand me like no other_ and _I thank Aslan every day for bringing you to me_.

Peter has never felt less like _King Peter the Magnificent_ ; he is out of his depth here, in over his head, but he finds it doesn’t frighten him so much when Caspian looks at him like he is just as consumed.

*

Time passes, like this:

Mornings where Peter wakes first, watching sunlight gild the slope of Caspian’s back; meetings and councils where Caspian listens intently one moment, a grave, dignified king, and makes faces at Peter the next like a schoolboy; nights of gasped names, and broken cries, and fervent pleas, and Peter drowning in happiness; battles—bloodshed, fury, and the swinging clash of swords—that end with them undressing each other with wandering, frantic hands, silently confirming that they are whole, that their time together has not ended yet.

They never tell anyone outright, but Peter has it on authority from his siblings that neither one of them can make any claim toward subtlety.

Edmund comes to him one afternoon, mouth crooked sideways and hand on his sword hilt. “Brother,” he greets cheerfully, amusement glittering in his eyes (and whatever the cause of it, even if it be amusement at Peter’s expense, Peter is still so very glad to see it there). “Come! Let me beat you soundly with my sword.”

And that is a challenge no self-respecting older brother can ignore. Peter rises to his feet smoothly, reaches out for his own sword. “Isn’t it high time we had these delusions of yours looked after, Edmund?” he asks archly, and when they get outside, Edmund’s laughter is still ringing in his ears.

The _parry, thrust, dodge, swing_ makes his shoulders burn with exertion, the good, sweet kind of burn. He loves his brother fiercely in this moment, when they are dancing this well-known, familiar dance of swords and danger, cheeks whipped scarlet by the wind. They go at it for what feels like hours, both of them fighting against someone who has learned their every move alongside them. Edmund’s sword is a blur, intricate and deadly, but his reach is still—ever-so-minutely—lacking. Peter lunges forward, twists his wrist, and then the sword is falling from Edmund’s hand, and they are done.

The two of them fall to the ground, near-breathless with laughter, and Edmund thumps Peter on the side of the head affectionately. Peter is still trying to catch his breath when Edmund turns to him, eyes going suddenly narrow and sharp like Peter’s seen a hundred times; that look means Edmund has a plan, has something he needs to find out, and it’s best if all parties involved simply give in and realize they have no foothold in the face of his stubbornness.

“Are you in love with him, then?” Edmund asks, voice a sly dagger darting right between Peter’s ribs.

Peter feels his stomach jolt, and he would laugh if he weren’t still so breathless. Edmund _knows_ him, knows him too well; knows that Peter retains just enough of his very English reticence that he might have balked at answering that question, had Edmund not thoroughly worn him down beforehand.

As it is, he’s exhausted enough that all that comes to his lips is the truth. “Very much so,” he says, and feels the weight of that settle in his chest. It is anything but oppressive.

Edmund is still looking at him intently, but Peter can see his mouth softening into fond smile. “I’m glad,” Edmund says simply, and rises up, holding a hand out to pull Peter up as well.

He can feel his brother’s sword-calluses under his hand, and they’ve been in Narnia years now but the feel of that still sends a surprised jolt through him; sometimes he forgets, that they need not worry about losing themselves again. That they are here to stay, and he can be a king for the rest of his days. That Narnia is their home.

Every morning Peter wakes a little pleasantly surprised, that Caspian is in his bed, that where he lives and where he thinks of as _home_ are now one and the same. It isn’t that he wishes to take Narnia for granted; it’s only that he knows that one day, maybe years into the future, he will wake up and there will be no surprise beating in his chest. There will only be pleasure, and he can kiss Caspian, and take his brother’s hand, calluses and all, and he won’t have to remind himself that he is _home_.

Peter looks forward to that day with all his heart.

\--

-


End file.
